


Enough to win - self insert edit

by EntropyDragon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28344237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntropyDragon/pseuds/EntropyDragon
Summary: Self insert edit of enough to win
Kudos: 1





	Enough to win - self insert edit

you shouldn’t be here. you should be getting up and exiting the room as quickly and casually as possible, but you can’t seem to move.

Clint groans again. “Come onnn, Stark, it’s bullshit, we know it’s bullshit–”

“You’re pushing pretty hard for something you think is ‘bullshit’, Birdbrain.”

Tony’s parked on the couch beside Bucky, not quite pressed into the soldier’s side, but close enough it’s obvious to anyone within sight they’re used to being a lot closer. The billionaire’s relaxed, sitting with his right ankle resting on his left knee (the closest he ever gets to really crossing his legs; you definitely haven’t noticed), a bland, almost bored look on his face.

It’s a ‘guy’s night’, which includes ‘the guys’ and ‘the women who could beat up most of the guys’ (Natasha) and they’re all in varying stages of inebriation…okay, they’re all fairly drunk after several rounds of Cards Against Humanity (Plus Alcohol). And it’s come up, again. Repeatedly. For the last fifteen minutes.

It. The rumor. The (alleged) elephant’s trunk in the room.

you flush at your own silent joke, thankful you're at least sober enough to not have blurted it outright.

“I’m juss saying,” Clint continues, “juss do the big reveal so we can all quit wondering–”

“No one else is wondering,” Rhodey says flatly from the armchair across the room.

“–if it’s bullshit.”

When Clint pauses, arching his brows in a ‘I’m about to try and poke this bear’ way, you nearly find the will to get up from your end of the couch.

Ypu don’t. You don’t get up, and Clint keeps talking.

“I mean…it could be an ego thing. Maybe you’re overcompensating. The tower, all the cars. That’s a thing.”

you wince, twisting your beer bottle in your hands and shooting a glance down the couch at Tony.

The billionaire doesn’t look the least bit bothered by any of it. Nothing is landing, nothing is provoking the reaction the archer’s obviously trying for. Tony doesn’t even look smug; just a little amused, now, and slightly flushed from the scotch he’s been drinking, the corners of his mouth ticking up like he’s trying not to laugh.

Or maybe trying not to say something just the right side of condescending, something cutting to put Clint in place, to shut him down with a few words delivered with delicious, pointed efficiency–

Okay, you absolutely have to stop that train of thought because it’s going to barrel through your layers of denial, and you're going to imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that (but a little softer, a little more teasing), and then you're just going to be hard and aching on the couch only a few feet from the object of your fantasy.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Clint suggests with the tenacity of the hammered.

Tony snorts, and the sound ricochets up and down your spine. Not because it’s sexy in the slightest, but because it’s a reaction–and if Tony’s reacting, that means he’s being convinced that this might actually be an interesting course of action, and he might actually do it.

you shift in your seat, and start trying to figure out the best way to get up and leave without flicking on a giant neon sign that says ‘I’M RUNNING BECAUSE I’M GOING TO GET HORNY OVER THIS’.

“What are you, twelve?” Tony asks, taking another sip of scotch.

Clint just jogs his brows and grins. “Afraid mine’s bigger?”

Natasha sighs from beside Steve where they’re sitting on the floor against the wall. you silently agree.

It’s so stupid, so ridiculous and high school; and of course, it’s when everything comes crashing down. you watch it happen, just past where Tony’s relaxing in his seat, watch everything cave with a smirk that curves Bucky’s lips.

“Fuck it,” the soldier says, legs falling wider, as though he’s the one packing (he might be; you've definitely never wondered about that, either). “Why don’t you just show ‘em, doll? He’ll shut up and we can get back to playin’.”

Tony gives Bucky a look, but there’s no stopping this.

you can’t quit glancing between Bucky’s lazily satisfied smile and the metal fingers sliding up from the back of the couch to brush up Tony’s nape, and then–

“Just take out enough to win,“ Bucky says.

Steve chokes on a swig of beer. Tony looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and also like he’s Ready To Do The Thing. Rhodey sighs with a weariness that makes you wonder for a fleeting moment what college with Tony was like–

–and then you remember you cannot be here for this.

You go to stand, but Tony’s already rising from his seat.

There’s suddenly no air in the room, you can’t breathe. Everyone else is whistling or protesting, and Tony hasn’t even reached for the fly of his jeans, yet, but your eyes are already aimed downwards, already searching for the outline of the bulge.

It’s a familiar path; your eyes flick over it frequently when you're with Tony in the lab…or when you’re hanging out together at the compound, or at home in the tower…ninety percent of the time you're together, really.

It’s easy to ignore the bantering that starts up among the group, the charged but still ridiculous game of chicken taking center stage, while you are glued to your own seat by the acute need to see.

And then here’s a flicker of movement past Tony’s hips, and you realize staring is probably not something you should be doing in direct sight of Tony’s boyfriend; his hot, supersoldier boyfriend of the last few months, who’s staring at you like he knows exactly how familiar you want to get with Tony’s bulge and…smirking? Staring back at you with grey-blue eyes that burn like a physical touch–

"OKAY, okay,” Rhodey calls out above the cacophony of voices, making you flinch and sit back, breaking your eye contact with Bucky. “Come on, man, both of you, that’s enough–Nice boxers, Barton, but pull your damn pants back up–”

Clint and Rhodey quickly become the main spectacle, but you're not looking at them. You're watching as Tony resettles on the couch–

–and then Bucky and Tony are both looking over at you speculatively (because of course Tony noticed the staring, too, of course he did).

It’s too much.

you put your beer down on the coffee table, stand from the couch, and beeline for the elevator, pulse pounding in your ears.

Too much hope, too much want, too close to a fantasy to be anything in the vicinity of a ‘good idea’.

You spend the ride up from the common floor trying to forget what you can’t have.

*****

you knows the rumors are true.

Not from personal experience or anything; you've never actually seen it-seen it. You're just closer to Tony than the other Avengers–closer to him than most other people (excepting Rhodey, Pepper, and of course, Bucky)–and it means Tony’s more relaxed around you. This translates into relaxed clothing: sweats, flannels, jeans so old they’re soft to the touch. A lot of pants that aren’t tailored to leave things to the imagination.

But when you wake up–faintly hungover after the near-disastrous game night–and wander out of your room and into the penthouse kitchen, you're treated to your very favorite view.

Tony’s at the counter, sleep-ruffled and relaxed, a StarkPad in his hands and a steaming mug beside him…and he’s only in a t-shirt and boxer briefs.

It’s something you only see in brief (hah) moments, on mornings like this when you both happen to be up way too early. In just underwear, the size is so much more obvious; the fabric already looks strained, stretched, and Tony’s not even hard, yet–

Yet? Jesus.

“Morning, Lee.”

you jolt, drags your eyes up to find Tony looking at you.

The billionaire smirks. “You good?”

You're not. You're really not, not when you're watching the downward trajectory of Tony’s free hand, how the fingers pluck up the hem of the billionaire’s shirt to scritch lightly at his stomach, flashing the waistband of his boxer briefs and the well-kept line of dark hair that disappears into them. A line that serves as a guide right back to where your eyes always seem to catch.

It just seems…not too big, but still almost unnaturally large; a soft, curved weight in snug red fabric, pushing out and hanging down between the tops of Tony’s (also delicious) thighs.

you swallow, clears your throat. “Yeah, no, I’m–yeah. Good morning, Tony,” you say, face getting hot.

“I’m up here, kid.”

Holy fuck, oops. you look up (again–god, you're being obvious, but it’s so har–difficult, so difficult for you to drag your eyes away; even shocked, even embarrassed).

Tony’s amusement fills out with a lazy kind of heat. “Keep looking at it like that and it’s gonna wake up.”

you're stuck wanting to choke on a laugh or a moan; the sound that does escape is little more than a strangled huff of air.

It’s maybe only eight o’clock, the morning light drenching the kitchen in cool autumn grey and faint shadow. Tony’s gazing at you, and you ponder the likelihood that this is a dream, or that you're just tired enough to imagine the bedroom eyes Tony’s giving him.

“Sorry,” you manage.

“I didn’t say it bothered me,” Tony says, the corners of his mouth ticking up further.

you only came out for some coffee, and now you're standing here wishing you’d pulled on a pair of sweats over your boxers. You just need your brain to wake up, but the coffee pot is right next to Tony, and nothing is fair–

“It really doesn’t,” a familiar Brooklyn accent drawls from behind you.

Bucky (shirtless and in a pair of low-slung flannel pajama pants; because, again, nothing is fair) steps around and beelines for the coffee pot. “Quit teasing, doll,” he says to Tony, following it up with a peck to his lips. “Just take them to the room and let them have it already.”

This time you definitely do choke. “What–”

“Hey, flirting is an integral part of the process,” Tony protests, setting down the tablet and picking up his mug, arching his brows accusingly at his boyfriend. “You’re murder-strutting all over the process.”

“I’m just gettin’ you where you’re trying to go faster than you’re gettin’ there. And ‘m not ‘murder-strutting’.”

“That’s all you do, pre-coffee. It’s sexy. Even when you’re trampling on my best-laid plans.”

“Um,” you say.

Bucky twists, smirking unabashedly. “Morning, sweetheart. Lookin’ to get that show you missed last night?”

And that’s just…enough.

“What is happening?” you plead.

It’s so much, and you still have’t had your coffee, and now you just want to say 'fuck it’ entirely and go back to bed, before it’s too late for you to write this off as the practical joke it must be.

Except the couple are looking at you like they know, and it’s making you feel like you've missed more than the ‘show’.

…Maybe you have.

Maybe you've been willfully ignoring any and all signs that the feelings might be mutual.

Maybe you've spent the last several weeks convincing yourself there’s nothing significant about Tony letting you keep your room in the penthouse, even after Bucky moved in.

Maybe you've been deliberately talking yourself out of acknowledging the glances, the smiles, the warm looks. From Tony. From both of them. The way their lives just…started to include yours.

And you're maybe, possibly also been pretending you haven't been desperate to see (feel) firsthand how accurate the rumors about Tony’s…endowment, are, exactly.

(You're imagined the weight of it in your hands, on your tongue, pushing into your throat. You've literally dreamed of it being the first thing to sink inside your body, to stretch you open and fill you up in ways you've never been filled.

It’s had you so impossibly, ridiculously fixated–on Tony’s cock, on the man attached to it, and the ex-assassin attached to him–and you've been sure there is no way you could have any of it.)

…So, yeah, you've maybe–possibly–missed some things. Sort of on purpose.

But Bucky and Tony clearly haven’t missed a single thing.

Bucky snorts gracelessly, doesn’t answer, just grins and turns to kiss Tony. Metal fingers slip under the billionaire’s shirt, rucking it up just enough you can see them caress Tony’s hip.

“Flirt later,” Bucky admonishes Tony when they break apart, “Kiss em now.”

“Pushy,” Tony retorts.

“I need to brush my teeth, first,” you say faintly.

*

You do get time to brush your teeth–

(“Use our bathroom.”

“Now who’s ‘pushy’.”)

–and you're glad, because when you open the door back into the master bedroom, it becomes apparent Tony’s taken the ‘flirt later’ to heart.

you inhale sharply as you're tugged forward by the hips, but where you're expecting a flurry of motion, there’s only the firm-soft press of lips and the teasing swipe of a tongue across the seam of yours and then Tony’s pulling back enough to look at you.

“Minty,” Tony says, smirking.

you huff a laugh, heat crawling into your cheeks. “Yeah,” you say, flushing deeper.

Tony hums, low and warm. “Fuck, kid,” he murmurs, “look at you…”

One of his hands comes up to brush your cheek, dropping to skate fingertips along your jaw and down to your throat, Tony’s eyes following before flicking back up to yours.

Scrutiny at this distance should be overwhelming, too much, and it kind of is–but you're so very okay with it, okay with being lost in the coffee-mint scent of Tony’s breath and the faint musk on the older man’s skin, left over from being entwined with Bucky for the night.

Speaking of…"Where’s…um…" you take a breath. “Is this okay?”

“We talked about it. Figured you might be more comfortable with a little one-on-one before anything too crazy.”

A laugh slips past your lips, semi-hysterical; they’ve casually discussed this. What the hell have you been doing this whole time?

Tony gives you this soft, amused look, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper than the first, crowding you back slowly against the wall beside the door.

It doesn’t even occur to you to point out that there’s a perfectly good bed maybe ten feet from where you're standing. The kiss is unhurried and luxurious, Tony’s fingers sliding into the hair at your nape and directing you where he wants. The hand still at your hip tugs you until you're pressed flush together, and wow that’s–

you make a garbled whining sound, tilting your head back against the wall to take a breath.

Big. Huge. Hard.  
Fuck.  
Tony rocks against you again, and when you hiss out a curse and open your eyes, it’s to a smug, dark gaze.

“What was that, Lee?”

“Mm,” is all you can manage, and you're glad Tony likes the blush, because you're sure he’s going to spend most of this encounter with your face and neck completely on fire.

“Use your words, baby.”

you frown before you can catch yourself. Words, really? He wants you to talk right now?

Tony’s smirk turns into a grin. “I’ll talk, then.”

He ducks his head to press a kiss to the side of your throat, soft and lingering, and then another, trailing them upwards to the corner of your jaw, and the next words are murmured directly into your ear.

“I want to ruin you.“

you inhale, twist your fingers into Tony’s shirt.

Tony noses at your jaw. “You want that, too? You want to see if you can take it?”

It should be the worst line to ever pass a person’s lips. It would be. But when it’s said by Tony Stark, and backed up by the hard, hot line of his cock pressed to your stomach…well, now you just want to know if he can.

They’re men of science, after all; you're damn well going to try.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “please. I…I want it–” you gasp when Tony nips at your throat, “–You. That.”

“Mmm. Good kitten.”

you shiver, and then Tony’s kissing you again, lazy and deep, coaxing your lips apart. His tongue curls into your mouth as his hands glide, warm and sure, under your shirt and your stomach, your waist, around your back to wrap you tight and pull you closer.

If it all stopped here, with just a few words, with just the confirmation that you both want this (that Tony actually, really, truly, wants you back) and minutes of this, the electric feeling and Tony’s tongue in your mouth, you would be happy.

You are happy. This would be enough.

…And then you tentatively slide your hands into Tony’s hair, and Tony makes a pleased sound into the kiss. Broad hands slide from your back and down into your boxers, and you has a fleeting thought about hand size (and what people say about it), and then you're being urged by the dual, massaging grip on your ass to grind forward against Tony’s third-fucking-leg, and it’s all very abruptly not enough.

“I know, baby,” Tony murmurs against your lips in teasing sympathy, and you're not sure what sound you made to warrant that response, but you're kind of glad you don’t know; if you feel this needy, it must’ve been pretty bad.

You end up on the bed, somehow–after several feet in which you only stop touching long enough to pull shirts over heads and actually make it onto the mattress–and then you're on your back, Tony kneeling between your spread thighs, looking down at you like–fuck, like this isn’t a one-off thing.

Like maybe Tony feels it, too–the intimacy of the rumpled blankets and skewed pillows, the mingling soft scents of Bucky and Tony in the sheets. How the soft grey light from the overcast morning sky, a little brighter than before, is spilling through the parted floor-to-ceiling curtains and somehow making everything feel sleepy and private and a little dreamy.

And for a split second, the enormity is terrifying, because it really doesn’t feel all that different. It’s the brighter, hotter version of what you feels when you shares a couch with Tony, when you're watching TV, or eating two out of three meals together almost every day. The same feeling you get when you do any of the other things you've done that you've spent so much time convincing yourself mean nothing.

“Where’d you go, sweetheart?” Tony asks, sliding his hands up your thighs.

you shake your head, not ready to say. Thankfully, Tony seems to get it.

“Let me bring you back, then,” he says.

And he does. Pulls you back into the moment by slipping fingers under the waistband of your boxers, by smiling when you lift your hips to make it easier to slide them off. The air is cool, but Tony’s mouth is hot and wet, and there’s no way for you to focus on anything but the silky-moist sweep of Tony’s tongue over the head of your clit.

When Tony sucks you down–minutes, hours, an eternity later–slow and savoring, and you can feel Tony swallowing around you, you are entirely present, one hand in Tony’s hair, the other tangled with the billionaire’s on the sheets beside your hip.

He’s right on the edge, teetering–

And then lubed fingers (where did the lube come from, your not paying attention) press between your lips, the tip of one pushing just past your rim, and that’s it.

You burst, spill into the convulsing heat of Tony’s throat with a near-pained gasp.

Tony pulls off slowly with a parting kiss to the clit that makes you flinch and whimper a little, a sound Tony shushes comfortingly, squeezing your joined hands and petting your hip with the other, before he leans up to press another kiss to your lips.

“You want more?”

Breathlessly, you nod.

*

When you tell Tony you've been waiting, Tony’s expression goes completely blank for a moment.

“Nothing.”

you shake your head.

“Fingers? Toys?”

“Nothing,” you confirm.

Tony shuts his eyes, exhales, and leans in to press his forehead to yours. “You’re gonna kill me, kid.”

He preps you agonizingly slowly. Kisses you the whole time; the insides and tops of your thighs, up your stomach and onto your chest, goatee rasping over increasingly sensitive skin. Licks and sucks and bites at your nipples, first carefully and then with more force when it makes you writhe on Tony’s fingers.

And, fuck, Tony’s fingers.

you're still a little disappointed that the first thing to penetrate you isn’t the absolute monster still confined under the soft fabric of Tony’s underwear, but it’s hard to be completely let down when Tony’s so good with his digits. So careful when he needs to be, but not so careful there isn’t a sting mixed in with the pleasure, pain that feels so sweet because it’s accompanied by praise murmured into your skin, Tony cooing softly and telling you how good you're being, how glad Tony is to be the first to do this to you, for you.

By the time you get up to four fingers, you've had to stop Tony multiple times, beg him not to make you cum again, not yet, because you want the next time to be when Tony’s inside you.

Tony seems pretty on board with the idea.

you whimper when you're no longer being filled, feel empty and weirdly lonely for a moment before Tony crawls over you and licks into your mouth, sloppier, more forceful, but no less skilled.

When Tony reaches over to tear a condom off the strip (he'd dropped a handful on the bed beside them–alongside the bottle of lube you hadn’t noticed–before he’d started prepping you, the foil squares spurring you on and making you feel strange, at the same time), you take a chance.

“Do we have to use one?”

Tony pauses, arches a brow, but he doesn’t look upset.

“I mean,” you hurries on, “I’ve done things with people before, but not in a really, really long time–like a year–and I got tested since, and I’m clean, and sterile,, and…if you are, if Bucky is…we could just not? Use one, if that’s okay? I just…” he swallows, “I just really want to feel you.”

For a long moment, Tony’s expression is unreadable, and then he’s crawling over you again and caging you into the bed, practically growling into a quick, aggressive kiss.

“Killing me,” Tony enunciates when he pulls back, staring down at you with this helplessly amused heat. “FRI, check in with Tasty Freeze.”

you don’t have to hold your breath long.

“Sergeant Barnes gave the go-ahead, boss.”  
Tony buries his face in your neck and groans, and you answer in kind when Tony’s hips roll down, his substantial, still-clothed length sliding slow and rough alongside you.

Somehow shyness still manages to leech in. Not nearly enough to turn you away from this; just enough to make your hands tremble slightly when you slide them down Tony’s sides, tug tentatively at the waistband of the boxer briefs Tony should definitely not be wearing, anymore.

You feel Tony’s smile against his throat, goatee pleasantly rough against the skin there and making you shiver. Tony nuzzles at you before pulling back enough to give you a peck on the lips, and then another, and another, soft kisses that do nothing but make you squirm.

You ease the fabric off Tony’s hips together, hands brushing, and it’s sweet, sweet and anticipatory and intimate–and then there’s nothing between you, and you moan, arching your hips up involuntarily and clinging to Tony’s back.

you can feel it; hot, velvety-soft skin over hardness, the length laying heavy beside the inner curve of your left hip, the head smearing precum across your belly. He rocks up into it mindlessly, barely hears Tony’s strained huff of laughter before your hips are being pinned to the mattress, stilled by warm, calloused hands.

Tony kisses you hard, once, twice, smiling into it.

“Fuck, Lee, sweetheart–I’m gonna shoot all over your stomach if you keep that up.”

…Which does nothing to encourage you to keep still, draws out an embarrassing sound at the thought.

Tony’s lips brush the corner of your mouth in another smiling kiss before the older man sits back on his heels, pulls you in by your hips to keep him close.

“Besides,” Tony says, “I thought you wanted to see.”

Oh, man, do you. you nod quickly with a breathless ‘please’, looking down his body.

Tony fucking dwarfs everyone you've ever seen.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Tony…”

The flushed, nearly plum-sized head sits, shiny-wet at the tip, more precum beading down in a thin clear line to the pale skin of your stomach, where there’s a patch of it already smeared from you rutting together. When Tony pushes forward, the slick smears further, just past your belly button.

A tremor of something not unlike fear ripples down your spine, tingles low in your gut, makes your own (fuck, significantly smaller, but just as flushed and leaking) cock jump.

Makes your mouth water.

“Can I–” you swallow, try again. “CanIseeifit’llfitinmymouth?”

Tony looks at you like he does in the lab when you make a particularly impressive breakthrough, this sort of awed pride. you're never going to see that expression the same way again; you'll never be able to see it without thinking of this version, the one that includes Tony wetting his lips, the indulgent but almost predatory focus.

“Fuck, kid–I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Tony says, like he actually means it. He leans down and pulls you into a kiss, nips at your lower lip. “Next time, sweetheart, I promise.”

Next time. He wants there to be a next time.  
Chest aching, hope so big it hurts, you nod wordlessly.

*

Letting Tony urge you to lay back down in the cozy mess of the blankets and sheets is easy, even if your heart’s pounding behind your ribs, in your throat.

You've always wanted Tony’s guidance, even after you stopped needing it. You've become a teammate, instead of a charge, more partner than just a protege in the lab, in the field; but every instruction, suggestion, word of advice or praise…they all still hit you the way they have since the beginning.

You'd go anywhere Tony wanted you to. And right now, Tony wants you to roll onto your stomach and then back again, to let Tony slide a pillow under your hips, because it’ll be easier the first time, Tony explains as he straddles your thighs, runs a hand down your spine.

First time, next time; these reassuring words that ease tension away and wind you up at the same time, make it harder to lay still, make you want to rock back against the first press of the blunt head against your stretched rim.

“You ready?” Tony asks, and the words feel as big as everything else does, a hint of strain behind them, Tony holding back for your benefit.

you nod, and then moan into the mattress, taking twin fistfuls of the sheets at the first real pressure, your body parting, making way for–fuck, for so much, and that’s just–that’s just the tip–

The thought makes a semi-hysterical laugh bubble behind your ribs, but it comes out as a gasp, real pain in the sound as you take the stretch, your thoughts scattering, skittering away from you, pushed out of your mind by the panic that maybe you can’t take it–

“There you go, baby–I know it’s a lot, you’re doing so well for me, Lee, you can do it, you can take it–”

There’s something comforting in Tony’s almost-babbling, the now very much clear strain in his words, the pride that leaks through as you take another inch slowly pushed into you, and then another.

The stretch hurts. Tony’s fingers are thick, and you had taken four, but this is–you feel more than full, and Tony’s still going, still easing, pressing inside you, thick and hot and impossibly big, gritting out praise and compliments and sounding almost as overwhelmed as you feel.

And then Tony bottoms out, and the pain ceases to matter completely.

Something inside you ignites, white-hot, a delicious shock that radiates out from inside, tears a ragged, breathless sob from your throat. You cant your hips back to chase the feeling and register Tony’s bitten-off curse and the press of the older man’s forehead against your nape, the hand that snaps to your hip, squeezing almost bruisingly tight.

“Fuck, you–”

“Please.”

Tony curses again, breath hot against the back of your neck. “‘M not going to last…”

“Don’t care, please, just–”

Nothing matters but the fullness, the drag as Tony pulls out and pushes back in to fill you again, you crying out at the same electric-hot burst as Tony’s cock drags along your cunt (your wonderful, magical cunt) again.

It’s all too much, all of it–the stretch, the way you feel like you're shaped around the massive length, like if you were to look you’d see the bulge of Tony’s cock distending your stomach with every push–but the pace is languorous, smooth and careful and deep, and Tony’s still talking to you, brushing breathless kisses against your hair and the nape of your neck, massaging your hip and sliding a hand up along your waist, affection in every touch, every word.

And then he really starts talking.

"God, Lee,” Tony rasps, “you look so good stretched around me. I knew you wanted this. We both did.”

Fuck. you can barely think, you're so lost, so close, the friction of the pillow against you and the loud, filthy-wet sounds of your joining pushing him higher and higher, and Tony keeps going.

“Bucky tells me–fucks me and talks about how you’re always looking…”

By now you're mindlessly meeting Tony’s thrusts, sounds pouring from your lips as you lose rhythm at the thought, the image of Bucky inside Tony, that metal hand wrapped around Tony’s cock–

Tony huffs an incredulous, broken laugh. “Do you even know what you–fuck–what you look like when you stare, baby? You blush, you get so fucking red, and–God, Lee, sometimes you lick your lips like you’re not even–”

And then Tony cuts off with another curse, his hips connecting with your ass, once, twice, cock spearing almost brutally deep. The heat of him spilling inside pushes you over just as much as the too-much stretch, as much as the feeling of being entirely filled and taken and owned. your own cry is almost soundless, a strangled gasp as you cum, warm sticky and wet against his cock.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the mingling sounds of your breathing, both of you coming down. Tony starts to ease out of your body, but you whine sleepily (you're so tired, absolutely wiped) and grab at Tony’s wrist. “Not–not yet, please.”

Tony chuckles softly, breath washing over the skin between your shoulder blades just before the open-mouthed kiss Tony places there.

you let yourself be tugged carefully over onto your side, still full, Tony wrapping around you.

“You did so good,” Tony mumbles into your hair. “Feel amazing. So good, you.”

Glowing with the praise, you drift off to sleep, Tony’s fingers tracing patterns low on your stomach.

*

The nap doesn’t last long; you wake to Tony gently easing out of you, kisses brushing along your shoulders. You get urged off the bed and onto slightly wobbly legs, wincing a little at the soreness.

You're urged into the shower, where Tony cleans you, thoroughly and gently, washes your hair and soaps you down and massages you until you're too relaxed to do anything but lean against Tony’s chest.

“Sorry, Lee,” Tony murmurs, genuine, but a little too pleased with himself to be entirely innocent, “I bet you’re really feeling it, huh?”

He slips two fingers inside you, a careful check for tearing that turns into Tony lazily, possessively stroking your insides, encouraging you to grind slowly until you cum against Tony’s stomach, Tony swallowing your gasp in a kiss.

You have to wash again, but it’s more than worth it.

*

you're ready to curl back up in the sheets and blankets, even if it means laying back in the same mess–the bed’s huge, you're sure you can just avoid anything sticky until they have the drive to actually clean–but when you step back into the room in just towels, the bed’s been remade, Bucky still bent at the edge, tucking in the last corner.

you stop short, stumbling slightly when Tony steps right into your back, the older man snorting softly and wrapping an arm around your waist to steady you.

Bucky turns, expression going from inquisitive to warm. “Hey,” he says, eyes dipping slowly down your body and back up. “Took care of the laundry; figured you’d be in no shape to do it yourself.”

The last part’s directed at you with a smirk and a wink, a wink, and coming from Bucky Barnes, it actually works.

“Um. Thank you, Bucky,” you manage, face heating further at Tony’s amused huff from over your shoulder.

Bucky’s expression softens. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Just want you comfortable. I’ll leave you two alone–”

“What–no,” you says, taking a step forward, “I’d–you should stay. Please?”

“Good choice,” Tony says cheerfully, “he’s a great cuddler. Giant robot teddy bear.” His hand drops to squeeze your hip before pushing you gently towards the bed. “You’re the meat in the snuggle sandwich, kid. Go get comfy.”

A couple minutes later, you've got Tony’s heat all along your back, Bucky’s along your front. Two hands, one flesh and one metal, trace patterns and stroke lazily along your stomach and your hips and your ribs.

It’s almost noon, the light still grey, and you doze to the quiet patter of rain on the window and the feeling of home.

*****

The next game night, a week later and a couple shots in, Clint brings ‘it’ up again. Just once.

Tony and Bucky both look amused as you, between them, turn fire-engine red.

Clint nods sagely, flops over the arm of the couch and across all of your laps to give you a congratulatory fist-bump.

*******************************************************


End file.
